


JayTimBINGO2019: A/B/O Dynamics Week

by meaninglessblah



Series: JayTimBINGO2019 [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Domestic Fluff, Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Undercover Missions, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-12 10:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20562884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: A collection of drabbles and short stories for the JayTim Bingo Challenge 2019. Entries for A/B/O Dynamics Week enclosed!1. "Heat" - Domestic Fluff2. "Alpha Challenge" - Fake Dating AU3. "Breathless Whisper" - International Mission4. "Chaste Kiss" - Wedding5. "???" - ???





	1. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and short stories for the [JayTimWeek](https://jaytimweek.tumblr.com) Bingo Challenge 2019.  
Prompt: "Heat" - Domestic Fluff

Jason scans the shelf to his left. Scans the one to his right. Takes in the frankly nauseating array of colours, and resolves to back up a few steps, to better take stock of the situation. 

His instructions have woefully underprepared him for this moment. He’s defused bombs with less options than this. _ Made _ bombs with less options than this. With bombs, it’s just red-wire-blue-wire. Here it’s red, blue, lilac, cyan, lavender, and something called ‘citrus breeze’. 

Jason wrinkles his nose. Why anyone would want to smell like citrus is beyond him, but he’s fairly certain Tim doesn’t. 

What flavour of obnoxiously vague and thematically representative colouring Tim _ does _ want, however, is equally indiscernible to the likes of Jason. 

He reaches out and takes the first package off the shelf, turning it - _ loudly, _ why is the packaging _ loud _ too? - over in his palm. The plastic is infuriatingly minimal on the text. A grand total of three lines, two of which are a disclaimer and one of which is a recommendation that this product is not suitable for children under three. Jason should fucking hope so. 

Jason’s eyes scan the coy instructional diagram of an effeminate clam blushing over a pearl with mild distaste and broad confusion. There’s some vague reference to proper use, and a warning about septicemia that Jason blanches at. Turning the package over only illuminates him that this particular type is ‘summer exhuberance’ (whatever the absolute flying fuck that means), and for nighttime use. 

Jason’s still puzzling over what the difference between daytime and nighttime use could possibly be when his cell chimes loudly in the empty aisle, jolting him from his confused spiral. 

It’s a text from Tim. One that reads, _ You’ve been gone a while. Everything ok? _

Jason thumbs the reply button as he glances between the open keyboard and the cryptic package. Lets his gaze sweep over the good six shelves of variations, and stabs at the call button instead. 

Tim answers after two rings. “Hey, you alright?” 

“Not sure,” Jason answers with a frown, and sandwiches the cell between his cheek and shoulder so he can grab another package. It's entitled ‘jubilant springs’ (what the _ fuck?!_) and claims to be super absorbent. 

He can hear Tim shifting upright on the other end of the phone with a breathless groan. He’s probably still on the bed where Jason left him, bundled up in his nest of blankets and pillows to wait out the worst of his heat. 

Tim’s tone is both pacifying and cautious when he says, “What’s the problem, babe?” 

“Is there a size guide for these things?” Jason asks, reviewing the packaging for any indication of sizing that he might have missed the first four times over. 

“Huh?” Tim answers with broad confusion, and after a beat of consideration hedges, “Sort of?” 

Jason frowns and skims the array of at least eight different options, none of which give him the barest indication of size. “Which size are you?” 

“Uh, heavy, I guess? Those are the ones I usually get. Not super heavy, just regular heavy.” 

“Regular heavy,” Jason repeats blandly, and crouches to locate the shelf. It’s third from the bottom. 

He leans over to drag his shopping basket closer as he inspects the - flavours? Colours? Scents? He has no fucking clue what any of these variations mean. 

“So which one do you like?” he asks. 

“Huh? What do you mean which one? The heavy ones.” 

“No,” Jason corrects, and shakes his head before realising Tim can't see him. “Which kind. Like, which colour? Red?” 

“What on earth are you talking about?” 

Jason grunts in frustration and wheels his hand in front of him. “The colours. There’s like, seven different flavours here.” 

“_Flavours_?” Tim repeats with intense confusion. “What the shit- Just get the heavy ones.” 

“I’m _ looking _ at the heavy ones!” Jason snaps, and tries to school his tone. “There’s at least seven different heavy ones. Which ones do you usually get?” 

“I don’t know what you’re asking me,” Tim admits, exasperated. He sounds immensely tired, and Jason feels a rush of guilt for disturbing him over this. Something that should have been a simple stroll to the shops and back. 

Tim’s got enough on his plate. His heat had come on unannounced, a week early, in the middle of a major WE acquisition that Tim’s been personally cultivating for _ months_. Jason doesn’t know how many times he’s heard the words ‘sensible bilaterally beneficial opportunity’ and ‘significant increases to stock holdings’. And now, right when he’s needed to be on his absolute A-game, he’s been sidelined by something entirely, aggravatingly, unavoidably beyond his control. Tim, because it’s Tim, had even preemptively arranged for the shareholders meeting to be scheduled ahead of his heat, so he _ had _ the extra time for it to surprise him. Which, knowing him, is ninety percent of the reason he’s livid about being confined out of the public eye to deal with it. 

That, Jason probably could have handled. Would’ve been able to soothe the raw irritation evident in Tim’s snarled ranting when he’d come home early from work, barely past noon, positively spitting with frustration. Only - it’s not just that frustration. 

Jason knows the debilitating, compromising arousal that comes par for the course when his ruts set in. He can confidently, wholeheartedly, _ empathetically _ say it doesn’t hold a candle to the sheer horniness of an omega’s heat. It’s beginning to give him whiplash. Jason’s spent the entire time on his toes this last week, alternating between being spontaneously shoved up against a wall and kissed until his goddamn _ soul _ has been sucked out of his body, and comforting a sobbing, inconsolable emotional wreck of an omega. Mewling soft, reassuring words of praise into the crook of Tim’s jaw. Smothering Tim with his comforting bulk when they cuddle, waiting out the worst of the cramps. 

Jason’s pretty sure he’s gone through his three back up sets of bedsheets with the amount of slick Tim’s produced. And that’s not even counting the laundry piles of clothes Tim changes out of seemingly every hour, frustrated by how cloying they feel on his overheated skin. 

If it’s this hellish for Jason, he can’t fathom how Tim’s managed to deal with it all these years. 

And hearing his omega sigh like he’s regretting asking Jason to do this for him, to get him something he desperately needs, when he’s so worn already, has Jason whining down the line. 

“Hey,” Tim soothes as Jason reaches up to unhook the phone from its cradle against his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, babe,” he mutters, grip tightening on his cell. “I didn’t mean to- How’re you feeling?” 

“Honestly? Like shit,” Tim offers, and laughs. “But that’s heats for you.”

“Yeah, well,” Jason says with a small smile, glancing into his basket, “I got you a pint of your favourite chocolate ice cream. They had the triple fudge one on special.” 

“With the hazelnuts?” Tim chirps, sounding much more lively. He purrs happily when Jason hums an affirmation. “Thanks, babe. You’re the best.” 

Jason’s chest warms at the praise, and he finds he’s grinning before he knows it. “Anything for my omega.” Then he inhales and instructs, “Okay, run me through this again.” 

Tim huffs a breathless, soft laugh. “The heavy ones.” 

“Yup.” 

“12 pack.” 

“Mmhmn.” 

“And what was the other thing you said? The flavours?” Tim snickers, and Jason suppresses a fond smile. 

“Yeah, which flavour is your favourite?” Jason teases. 

“Which one do you recommend?” 

“Honestly, I have no clue what these guys are selling. It’s making me appreciate being an alpha who doesn’t have to deal with this shit on the regular, let me tell you.” 

Tim barks a sharp laugh. “It’ll get easier with practice, trust me. You’ll know which ones to grab next time.” 

“Next time?” Jason repeats with mock horror, and lifts the first package off the shelf, inspecting the tag. “Christ, these are expensive.” 

“You’re telling me,” Tim says with a hint of bitterness. His tone drops into something hopeful, edged with need when he asks, “You gonna be home soon?” 

“Yeah, babe,” Jason promises. “Just gotta pick out the perfect ones for you.” 

Tim snorts, but it’s amused. “Oh, yeah? And what have you decided on?” 

“The one with the roses?” Jason grunts, and squints to make out the name on the packaging. “‘Heavenly bouquet’? What the fuck is with these names. It’s like playing charades, but with _ words_.” 

“Roses, huh?” Tim teases. “Very romantic, bringing me a bouquet.” 

Jason lets his lips quirk in a grin. “Well, red _ is _ your favourite colour.” 

Tim makes a little choked noise, like he’s smothering a laugh. “Alright, get your ass back here. I need my big sappy alpha to be my big spoon.” 

“Yes, sir,” Jason purrs, and slides back up to his feet as he hangs up the call. He tosses the package into the basket amidst the pile of chocolate and the ice cream tub, and then pauses. Adds two more packets - 36 should be enough to get him through the week, right? - and then hoists it onto his hip. 

Mission accomplished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friend pointed out to me how stupid it is that omegas seem to have so much slick but never anything practical to deal with it. So this seemed like to logical explanation. 
> 
> I highly recommend watching Sierra DeMulder's "[The Tampon Poem](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dJeSo1JEwJs)". It was a great comedy inspiration for this fic.


	2. Alpha Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and short stories for the [JayTimWeek](https://jaytimweek.tumblr.com) Bingo Challenge 2019.  
Prompt: "Alpha Challenge" - Fake Dating AU 
> 
> **Warning tags: You've got some mild injury and some blood in here. Stay safe, kiddos!**

Jason had sort of assumed the black leather jacket, black leather boots and black leather choker screamed ‘Fuck off’ enough for even a pheromone-stunted alpha to get the hint. And that was if the solid two-hundred-and-twenty-five pounds of ‘Don’t fucking touch me’ weren’t a dead giveaway. 

Apparently, he needed to work on his resting bitchface, because he’d been approached by no less than six alphas before he’d even finished ordering his first whiskey sour. 

Seriously, what part of him literally smothering the back of his neck with a skintight choker had given the impression that he was at this bar to have his boundaries overstepped? Because he needed to have a severe word with whoever had decided a choker was the new bedroom eyes. 

He got that some guys were into dominant-looking omegas, sure. He liked a good, confident ensemble as much as the next guy. Shit, he even got the appeal of someone who looked like they could make Jason kowtow with just a sharp word and a firm grip. There weren’t a lot of people, alpha _ or _ omega, who could convince Jason to do anything once he’d dug his heels in; between his uncharacteristically formidable bulk and tough-as-nails stubbornness, saying he was a handful of an omega was the understatement of the century. So yeah, the promise of a partner who could manhandle him through his most deeply buried kinks was kind of attractive. 

But he did not spend forty-five minutes picking out this outfit and coming to this particular bar just to fend off horny alphas all night. This was supposed to be his evening off, goddamnit. He was getting sick of politely (and in the instance of the alpha who had introduced himself by smacking Jason’s ass as he’d leaned up against the bar, a _ lot _ more impolitely) finding ways of refusing them. He could only paraphrase “Get fucked” so many times in a single night. 

He’s musing on the merits of pretending not to speak a lick of English when yet another overconfident alpha sidles up and drapes an elbow across the counter. Jason’s got both forearms leaned up on the wood, wrist crooked over wrist, and the guy’s standing at least a foot away, but he still manages to somehow marry at least half his sizeable arm up against Jason’s. 

Jason swallows back his sigh, gaze dragging up the man’s bulk. He’s taller than Jason by a negligible few inches, not that that’s ever given Jason pause before, and carrying nearly half his weight again in muscle mass. Oh _ good, _ Jason thinks sourly, a protein-jacked gym-junkie alpha who’s probably never been told ‘you can’t’ and believed it in his entire life. 

But Jason’s a firm believer in not judging a book by its cover, so he gives this guy the benefit of the doubt and a thin, polite smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. 

“Hey babe,” the alpha purrs, and it drags the skin up the back of Jason’s neck like nails on a chalkboard. “I look good in this shirt, but I’d look better in you.” 

Jason barks a laugh, because that flies right past all of his stunned horror and leaves him reeling with just how absolutely chauvinistic this douche is managing to be with less than fifteen words out of his stupid mouth. When Jason lowers his chin again to level a disbelieving look on the guy, he’s _ astounded _ to find he’s still maintaining a straight face. 

“Like that one?” the man preens before Jason can even think of letting him down easy. He tilts a little closer, enough that Jason has to lean back from the heat of him. “I’ve got more tricks up my sleeve. But all the best ones need an assistant. You’ve got a great laugh, baby.” 

Jason scoffs breathlessly, stirring the straw in his cocktail before he ditches it on a coaster. “Not your baby, baby,” he shoots back, and takes a sip. 

He must have underestimated this guy’s stupidity, because he just affects a smirk and slides up the distance until their shoulders are practically flush together. From this close, Jason’s nostrils are filled entirely with his scent, and he wrinkles his nose, shoulders hunching as he turns his gaze aside. 

“Not yet,” the alpha purrs, and Jason definitely rolls his eyes this time. Apparently subtlety isn’t going to get him anywhere tonight. 

But he’s not the kind of guy to piss off a jacked and obviously horny alpha to his own detriment. Even if he _ could _ probably throw this guy over the bar, Jason’s not looking to get kicked out less than an hour into his night. So he sighs and defaults to the long game of easing himself out from under this alpha’s presence without outright rejecting him and causing a scene. If he’s lucky, the man will spot a simpering omega across the room and just leave him be. 

The alpha considers him with a hungry slide of dark eyes, the kind of look Jason can feel hooking into his skin-tight pants and thin shirt. “You got a name, baby?” 

He’s really beginning to hate that nickname. There’s nothing about Jason that matches up with the small, delicate, _ submissiveness _ of an omega, and certainly nothing that earns him a classically belittling nickname like _ baby_. 

But truth be told, he likes the idea of this guy knowing his real name even less. 

Jason turns over, shoulder nudging the guy back less than gently. It’s hard enough that it can be read as a demand for personal space, and masked enough that he can pass it off as accidental if the alpha gets defensive about it. He props his elbows up on the bar, sprawling in an effort to make himself a touch more formidable. Jason doesn’t like being leaned back against the bar; it leaves him to open to the rest of it, makes it feel like he’s on display, draped over the wood. But it also puts the back of his neck just that touch more out of reach, and that’s enough for him right now. 

He affords the man a neat smile and takes a longer sip of his sour, studiously ignoring that question. 

“Aw, don’t be shy, sweetheart,” the alpha purrs, tapping into that deep rumble that makes the hairs on Jason’s arms stand on end. 

The alpha angles his hip against Jason’s, the heat of him saturating through the thin material immediately, and plasters his thigh against him. Jason winces, and is just moving to peel himself off the man when the alpha leans into the crook of Jason’s shoulder. Drags his nose up the arch of Jason’s neck, nudging into his scent gland. 

Several things happen at once. Jason stiffens, going rigid as panic floods through him, ice cold and invasive. His pulse ratchets, making his chest ache sharply with the sudden increase. He can feel the alpha’s breath on his throat, cloying and nauseating as he pulls back an inch, the drag on his inhale loud in Jason’s ear. Jason can see the edge of his smirk in his peripheral, even as Jason shifts his weight to bring his hands up. 

The shove he plants in the center of the alpha’s chest only rocks him back a few inches, but it’s enough room for Jason to flash him a warning snarl of teeth and settle back against the bar, pulse buzzing in his ears. 

The alpha’s smile slips into a scowl, brow pinching as he pivots around to crowd Jason against the bar, bearing down with his massive frame. Jason feels adrenaline shift through him, his lips curling back in a defensive sneer as he fights the urge to shrink back down from that clear challenge. 

Jason tenses instinctively, terror flashing through him when the alpha growls, low and rumbling. 

A body slides in under his crooked arm, and Jason’s too stunned to immediately wrench it away from the contact as a slip of a man settles his weight against the line of Jason’s body. It’s not a lean; it’s a layer, a press of body against his, protective and possessive all at once. Even though the guy can barely canvas a third of Jason’s bulk, he makes it feel like he’s got all of Jason shielded beneath that elegant frame. Something about the sheer confidence, the fortitude, makes Jason shiver, and Jason’s instincts purr, _ alpha. _

The man leans a head back against the crook of Jason’s shoulder, black hair tickling into his exposed collarbone as he tilts his chin up and meets Jason’s gaze. It’s flat and sympathetic, and it throws Jason for a loop until the man purrs, “Hey, babe, what did I miss?” 

The over-aggressive cockwaffle of an alpha currently collecting his jaw off the ground makes an indignant noise, and the man searing heat down the entirety of Jason’s left side drops an icy glare on him. 

The jut of his chin is both dismissive and hostile. As is the, “‘Sup, dude?” he grunts towards the man. 

Jason wonders vaguely if he’s hallucinating. The _ balls _ on this guy, to be challenging an alpha who looks like he has the bulk to pin Jason down over this bar, when he’s barely scraping Jason’s chin himself… 

His impromptu Samaritan slides a hand around the small of Jason’s back, layering a hand – more lightly than he expects, light enough that he can barely feel the weight of it – over his ribs. Jason fights not to jerk away from the unexpected touch, schooling his expression with only the barest slip of a frown. 

“The fuck is this?” Cockwaffle demands, gaze switching sharply between Jason’s impassive features and the newcomer’s cool air of disdain. 

The glare Jason’s saviour levels on the guy could sink the Titanic. It’s lethal and cold, and roiling with alpha aggression. The barest flash of teeth is unnecessary, but it does serve to accent the cruel twist of the smaller alpha’s lips when he says, “Can we help you?” 

“Yeah,” Cockwaffle pipes up, brows furrowing in equal parts fury and confusion. “Who the fuck are you?” 

The alpha constricts his grip around Jason’s waist, digging his nails into Jason’s ribs the barest amount. Just enough to get Jason’s breath to hitch, which makes him suspect the alpha doesn’t realise he’s doing it, and manages to call Cockwaffle’s IQ into question without even moving his lips. 

“His boyfriend,” he sneers, deadpan and unimpressed. “Who the fuck are you?” 

Jason definitely didn’t sign up for this. Not for having a five-foot-five shortstack of an alpha (who probably comes with a side serving of short-person complex, if Jason thinks about it long enough) professing to be his boyfriend. He also didn’t sign up for one jacked Cockwaffle thinking he’s entitled to Jason’s time or body, but apparently life doesn’t give a single solitary shit what Jason wants. 

And between the two, he’s inclined to side with Shortstack. 

Jason shifts his weight down into that layer – noting when the smaller man stiffens slightly at the increased contact, his breath catching ever-so-slightly – and turns his head until he can drag his nose up the shell of the man’s ear, lids slipping to half-mast. That earns him a minute shiver as Jason inhales the alpha’s scent, holding eye contact with Cockwaffle as he does so. 

It nearly knocks out his knees. The man smells damn fucking good. His scent is masked beneath a tasteful amount of cologne, but nonetheless soft, smooth on the back of Jason’s tongue. It’s surprisingly sweet, an almost nutty quality to it that absurdly reminds Jason of coffee. It’s a neat counterbalance to Jason’s own scent, which previous partners have described to him as smoky, rich and peaty. 

It takes very little additional effort for Jason to shift away from the man’s neck - a classic display of scenting for mates - and lean his cheekbone against his crown, draping an arm around his shoulders. 

Cockwaffle looks incensed. “You’re not his boyfriend,” he accuses. 

The growl that rips up through the smaller alpha’s throat startles even Jason, and draws the attention of several nearby patrons. Jason whines, high-pitched and needy, squeezing the man’s shoulders for emphasis; it’s a standard display for a threatened mate, a plea for protection and safety. Thankfully, the smaller alpha takes it in stride, his grip biting on Jason’s ribs. 

“_Excuse _ me?” he snarls, low and violent. 

Cockwaffle’s handled bigger threats, apparently. Not that Jason can blame him, but Shortstack’s stature goes a long way to dismissing him as a genuine threat. If Jason had met him under any different circumstances, or even just spotted him from across the room, he’d be inclined to assumed the man was an omega. He's got the neat, petite features of one, but then again Jason's never exactly fit the mould either. 

The larger man seems to swell, teeth baring as a responding growl rolls up through his chest, one that Shortstack matches. They’ve drawn significantly more attention now, attracting a small crowd of onlookers. Cockwaffle seems galvanised by his audience. 

“You heard me, shrimp,” the alpha bellows, chin jerking up to bare the column of his broad throat. It’s a blatant alpha challenge, oozing with aggression. Jason can feel the tension in the air dial up, unease shifting in his gut. “I had my eyes on him first. Get lost.” 

“He’s not interested,” the smaller man growls, and rage flares in Cockwaffle’s gaze. 

“You wanna make this easy?” he demands, and the smaller alpha tilts his head in open hostility, teeth bared. “Let’s take this outside, shrimp.” 

Jason feels when the man scoffs. “Sure.” 

It’s not until the man under Jason shifts and straightens that the words catch up with him, and Jason’s _ horrified. _

Because act or not, that alpha is a David compared to the Goliath that is Cockwaffle. Jason appreciates his help, really, but this guy is going to be _ levelled_, and Jason’s not selfish enough to let him do it on his behalf. 

The panicked whine that slides up his throat is not entirely faked, and Jason makes an aborted grab for the man’s upper arm. He ducks out of it neatly, letting Jason’s nails graze him as he squares up in the face of Cockwaffle. 

“Outside,” he says, icy blue eyes flashing. “Let’s do it.” 

“You’re fucking on,” Cockwaffle retorts and turns to make a beeline for the bouncers at the front door. The smaller alpha pauses to pull his cell from his jeans, checking the time before he slides it into a back pocket for safekeeping, and starts after him. 

This time, Jason manages to get a hold of his arm. “What are you doing?” he snarls, low and fast, aware of their audience. 

The alpha gives him a crooked, confident grin. “Solving your problem.” 

He tries to start forward again, and Jason’s grip constricts with an irritable growl. The man pauses, arm flexing beneath Jason’s hand, and the shirt’s thin enough that Jason can feel the press of decent muscle back against his hold. 

Okay, so maybe he’s not a total kitten, but he’s still going to get fucked up by this alpha. Jason refuses to be responsible for being the reason this guy leaves in an ambulance. 

“Leave it,” Jason hisses, baring teeth in a desperate attempt to scare some sense into the alpha. He's not surprised when it doesn’t make a single shred of difference to the guy’s mildly amused expression. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.” 

He levels a quietly confident and entirely knowing look on Jason. One that gives him pause. “Have some faith,” he advises, and slides out of Jason’s slackening grip, headed for the doors. 

Jason hesitates for all of a second before pressing after the man, snarling in frustration. He’s going to get his (cute little) ass handed to him on a silver platter. At the very least Jason should be there to tell him “I told you so” so he remembers not do something this reckless again. 

Cockwaffle, if it’s even possible, looks bigger in the glow of the streetlamps when Jason breaches onto the cool pavement, casting around. The hulking beast has already shrugged off his jacket, rolling his neck luxuriously as he glares the smaller man down. 

Jason’s alpha is leaned up on a bicycle rack, one arm crooked to the back of his neck in a languid stretch. As Jason stares, mortified, he bends at the waist to stretch out his obliques. Like he’s going for a run. Like he’s not even worried about the imminent likelihood of ending his night drooling into the pavement. 

“Come on, shrimp,” Cockwaffle jeers, which draws the attention of some interested onlookers, who part to clear some room. He beckons, curling his upraised hands into meaty fists. “Let’s get this over with so you can crawl back home with your tail between your legs.” 

The smaller alpha offers a quiet, thin smile, and shrugs, not even bothering to affect a stance. “Sure,” he answers with lackadaisical charm. 

Cockwaffle blinks, momentarily off-put by the man’s unperturbed demeanour. Then he sneers and winds back for a direct hit. 

The smaller alpha doesn’t even sidestep it, and Jason’s heart lodges in his throat when he reads the man’s unaffected stance. Cockwaffle’s fist plows forwards, and Jason’s alpha shifts to divert it in a deft block that sends it sailing past his ear. 

Cockwaffle’s a little stunned by the deflect, but he recovers quickly, returning an uppercut that Jason's alpha ducks under with an open palm into the larger man’s diaphragm. 

He reels back a bit, wheezing slightly as he finds his feet and pulls himself out of the smaller alpha's reach. Jason can see him analysing the man, his calm demeanour and unaffected stare, and then Cockwaffle gears up for a devastating blow. 

Smaller alpha steps forward before he can even release the energy, sliding effortlessly into the chasm between his arms. It’s only because Jason has a front row seat to the fight that he spots the man’s calf winding around Cockwaffle’s anchored ankle before he leverages the guy back with a swift shove to his sternum. 

Cockwaffle hits the pavement with a sickening whump and a garbled curse, gathering himself up quickly as Jason’s alpha takes stock. He looks calm, focused, his blue gaze sharp as it slides over the man’s posture. 

Jason sees when the wrath finally lights Cockwaffle up, and then he’s surging up from the concrete with a snarl of rage. His swings are absolutely feral, squeezing at the panicked vice around Jason’s throat as he lunges for Jason’s alpha. 

Jason’s alpha, to his credit, responds by going on the defensive, backing up out of Cockwaffle’s space as his punches fly wild. It’s honestly mesmerising, the way he slides around the man’s sweeping muscle. It’s almost a dance, Jason thinks with dazed awe. It’s still unbearably close, and Jason watches knuckles graze the man’s cheekbone as he reels back. 

A sharp, concerned bleat punches itself from Jason's chest at the sight, and Jason’s alpha makes a sharp sideways glance over at the vocalisation. The split second of distraction is all the opening Cockwaffle needs. 

His fingers fist in a handful of the smaller alpha’s hair, prying a snarl of pain from him as he yanks him back to arm’s length. Then Cockwaffle winds back his empty fist and clocks him across the cheek. 

Blood splatters the pavement, and Jason gives a bark of alarm at the sight, but he can’t see where it’s come from before Jason’s alpha is _ moving. _

In the blink of an eye he’s on the offensive, hand snapping out to seize Cockwaffle’s wrist. The grip looks painful even from where Jason's standing, and it’s reaffirmed by the shout of pain from Cockwaffle as Jason’s alpha twists and tucks it against his underarm. 

Jason watches, breathless, as his alpha pivots, calves snapping up to brace Cockwaffle’s skull. Then, with the full weight of his small body behind it, he’s throwing Cockwaffle down to the pavement. 

Cockwaffle convulses against the concrete, the air heaving from his lungs as Jason’s alpha disengages with lithe grace, stepping back from the stunned man. 

He lifts the back of a hand to press against his still-bleeding nose and bares teeth when it comes back smeared in red. His lips curl back in a sneer as he glares down pointedly at the mewling man and says, “Keep your hands to yourself, and stop groping omegas up, got it?” 

Cockwaffle gives a muffled affirmation, curling into the pavement, and Jason’s alpha rocks back on his heels a bit, the tension washing off his shoulders. Jason starts forward before he knows what he's doing, stepping up to the smaller alpha's side. 

He glances up, surprised to find Jason there. Jason tries to match his soft, relieved smile when he meets that adrenaline-charged gaze. Words spiral up over Jason’s tongue and are lost beneath the bellow of the bouncer striding towards them. 

“Time to go,” Jason growls, seizing the smaller man’s arm. The shocked crowd parts around Jason’s mass as he drags the alpha down the sidewalk after him, pace hard and fast. 

The alpha comes easily enough. Not that Jason gives him much of a choice. He doesn’t stop until they’re at least a block away, the neon lights of the bar fading behind them. Jason pauses at a busy intersection to glance down each street, unsure where he’s actually heading but buzzing with the intense need to get the alpha to safety. 

Jason spins on his heel when the alpha tugs on his wrist, glancing down at the man with a flare of panic, already searching for the danger. He stills when he lays eyes on the man. 

His face is a mess of blood, a thin trickle from his nostril smeared across his cheek. His lower lip also seems to be split, though not bleeding as profusely. The man’s sleeve is red where he’s been pressing it against the stream, and Jason’s heart lurches painfully at the sight. He moves on instinct, his motions betraying the sharp flare of trepidation in his gut. 

He cups the man’s jaw, turning him gently into the light of a nearby walk signal as he inspects the wound. The man's eyes are wide and a little bewildered. When Jason drags a slow thumb over the corner of his mouth, rolling his swelling lip, he hisses softly and winces. 

“Christ, look at you,” Jason breathes guiltily, brow pinching. Then he scowls. “Why the hell did you do that for me? You could have gotten yourself killed. And for what?” 

There’s a slow grin tugging at the man’s lips as Jason stares down at him, and it ratchets Jason’s exasperation up another notch. 

“Seriously, what were you planning on getting out of that? A date or a concussion?” 

“Is this a date?” the man murmurs with an edge of soft reverence, and Jason stills. That smile curls a little wider, those iced blue eyes melting with soft warmth. “Pretty unorthodox, I know, but I didn’t know how else to get your attention. And I figured it was more original than a cheesy pick up line.” 

Jason’s not sure he’s breathing, mild reeling. “You just decked a guy,” he hisses with broad horror, “to ask me out on a _ date_?” 

“Too much?” the man asks, but there’s no remorse in his teasing tone. “I can settle for flowers next time if that’s what you’d pre-” 

Jason doesn’t know what compels him to do it. One moment his hands are cradling the alpha’s jaw, the next they’re burrowing into his hair, yanking him forwards to crash against Jason’s lips. He tastes blood and salt and the lingering aroma of coffee on that tongue, and curls forward to chase it down. 

The man makes a surprised yelp against his lips, and Jason shifts to drag him deeper, feeling him slot against the curve of Jason’s tense body. Then there’s hands fisting in his shirt, and Jason has to break off to suck in a lungful of air. 

He cranes his head back towards the murky starlit sky, senses swimming with the alpha's scent and the taste of coffee deep on his tongue. “You got me banned from my favourite bar,” he murmurs to the sky, the words strained as they rattle up his elongated throat. 

Beneath him, the man chuckles, and Jason glances down sharply, just to see what he looks like. The creases at the edges of his eyes, curled up into mirth. The very slight wrinkle of his nose. The flash of those pearly whites. 

“I just fought a man-mountain for you,” he teases, flushed lips curling as he smiles. 

Jason leans down and licks open the man’s mouth, pulse hot and thrumming in his veins. The man beneath him stills, breathless as he stares up at him. Jason holds his gaze, mutters against his lips, “You still owe me a proper date,” and kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I write this just so I can picture Jason in a leather jacket and choker? Maybe.  
Did I write it just so I can make fun of shortass alpha Tim? Absolutely.


	3. Breathless Whisper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and short stories for the [JayTimWeek](https://jaytimweek.tumblr.com) Bingo Challenge 2019.  
Prompt: "Breathless Whisper" - International Mission 
> 
> ** Warning tags: there's some pretty blatant verbal sexual abuse early on here, and a small bit of physical/psychological abuse further in. Only two brief occurrences, not on-going. Stay safe, kiddos!**

Tim's in Hong Kong for a merger and nothing else. He's brought a handful of trusted aides and executives to the negotiations, because sometimes unifications of this scale require a show of force. Especially when the majority of the opposing board are charged with alpha pheromones. 

It's not the first time Tim's found himself staring down an over-competitive board trying to squeeze every last concession they possibly can out of a merger. Sometimes Tim thinks the world of business is more vicious than his nightjob. But as with his vigilantism, Tim rarely comes off second best after all these years of practice, despite the prevailing theory his competitors love to tout that he _ is _ second best. 

Tim's career as acting CEO of Wayne Enterprises has been plagued with -ests. Youngest, brightest, fiercest, coldest, cleverest. He's heard most adjectives used to describe him. It's all attributed to his prestigious mentorship under philanthropist Bruce Wayne, and - as most things are - to his alpha disposition. 

The latter, much like the former, is a facade. Tim's never had to rely on either to guide him in the cutthroat world of business. He's been served by his level-headed intellect and omega intuition far better than his aggressive counterparts. 

It drives them mad, he knows. Unable to comprehend a reality where a successful CEO is anything less than a hyperdominant alpha, Tim rarely has to work to uphold the mask. Most people assume his gender on sight, and Tim's never seen the necessity to correct people in their assumptions of him. It just gives him more room to manoeuver. 

The airport lounge stinks of alpha pheromones. Tim's curled up in an armchair, a mostly-drunk espresso within immediate reach as he trawls through the work emails he'd missed on the twenty-hour flight over. In front of him, one of his executives' assistants babbles down a cell in formal, stiff Mandarin, trying to determine when their guide is arriving to escort them. Tim's got one ear on the proceedings and the other has an earbud embedded in it. 

There's a collection of alphas draped over a lounge nearby, their gazes slicing past Tim to rake over the assistant. The young man hasn't noticed yet, but Tim's having a harder and harder time focusing between the conversation, the deluxe Dark Side of the Moon album, and the lewd comments their acquaintances are making. 

"Bend him over this couch," one of them is growling, a smug lilt to his lips as he leans into his colleagues' confidence. He's not being nearly as quiet as he could - and should - be. "Maybe he'll suck you off while I fuck him. Put that mouth to good use." 

Tim exhales irritably and sinks deeper into his armchair. He doesn't miss the attention being a presenting omega attracts. But he's certainly not surprised by their comments. The assistant is giving off sharp, distressed pheromones the harsher their tone grows. If Tim inhales, he can practically taste the omega scent on the air; it's no wonder these alphas are being provoked by it. 

It's still no excuse for their behaviour. Tim beckons over the waitress who's offering caffeine refills, lifting his mug. When she's within ears' reach, he asks in delicate, clinical Mandarin, "Any chance I can get these esteemed guests removed?" 

The waitress doesn't smile, but Tim spots the quirk to her lips as she hands back his full mug anyway. "If they are bothering you, sir, I can escalate your concerns to a supervisor. But unless they impinge on your employees' safety, I'm unable to eject them from the platinum lounge." 

Tim thanks her anyway, and glances up when the assistant drops the cell into his jacket pocket. 

"Our guide has just passed security. They should be with us shortly," he offers brightly, only looking partly frazzled. His warm smile slips a bit when the team of alphas behind them burst into raucous laughter. 

"Shall we meet them at the front of the lounge?" Tim asks, and the assistant looks grateful before he stoops to collect his executive's duffel. 

The guide flags them down when they file out of the platinum lounge, beaming broadly. "Hong Kong welcomes you!" they announce. "Hopefully your flight was not too difficult? Your bags will be forwarded to the hotel for your stay. But for now, let's get you through customs. Do you have your passports available?" 

Tim has his in his inside pocket, and he hands it over readily. The guide notes the visa documentation on the inside with rapturous intrigue, glancing up at him. 

"Pleased to meet you, Mister Drake. Would you prefer if we spoke _ guānhuà_?" 

Tim waves a latent hand through the air. "Bù yòng." 

They offer an appeasing nod, studying his passport. "Do you prefer Timothy or Zhēngjiāo, Mister Drake?" 

It feels nice to hear his name on fluent lips. "Tim is fine," he replies, and takes his offered passport back. 

They pass through customs with little issue. The guide is polite and expressive on the limousine ride through the city to their hotel, quick to point out landmarks and places of interest. Tim listens with the same aloof interest he reserves for charity galas. This isn't his first time in the city; it's hard to drum up intrigue when you've seen as many sardine-can cities as Tim has. 

Tim excuses himself from dinner when they arrive, offering a half-hearted justification that the jet lag has set in and he's going to retire early. His team offers little resistance, and Tim hits speed dial the instant he closes the door to his suite behind him. 

His wristwatch tells him it's seven a.m in New Jersey, but Dick picks up with a groggy, "Hello?" after only five rings. 

"If you ever send covert messages to my work email again, I'll remotely change your wifi password and lock you out," Tim says bluntly down the line. 

Dick groans, and there's the sound of him rolling onto his back. He must still be in bed. Tim wonders how many hours down he's actually gotten, and feels a flash of guilt. It evaporates when Dick retorts through an obvious smile, "Your phone's encrypted anyway. As if you'd let anything slip through." 

Tim grunts and shucks his jacket, bringing his network interface app up. But the time he's toed off his shoes and slipped off the matching leather belt, he's piggybacked onto the Bludhaven mainframe. "Your wifi still called 'Pretty Fly For A Wifi'?" 

"Stop hacking me," Dick says, and yawns arduously. "But if you're in already, you might as well pull up the case file." 

Tim hums his agreement, because it's already downloading. He stabs at the speakerphone and drops the cell onto the bedcovers so he can undo his buttons with rigorous efficiency. 

"Terrorist cell, huh?" Tim deduces, and wiggles his trousers down his hips, leaving the lot discarded on the floor. He's only here for a few days to recognise the merger, and he's certain his assistant has packed a new suit for each day, so creasing this one won't be life or death. Plus, Alfred’s not here to chastise him. He swipes to the next soft copy document, frowning. "This is hardly international. Since when does Gotham care about Hong Kong's anarchists?" 

"They don't. I just figured since you were local, you might want to stretch your wings. It was a pretty long flight." 

He's got Tim there. He tucks the phone into the crook of his shoulder for ease as he lays out his suitcase and zips it open. 

"So what's their MO?" 

"The Progeny," Dick reads with broad emphasis, "are a terrorist cell based in Hong Kong that kicked up a fuss radicalising alphas." 

"A bunch of overaggressive, hard-done-by alphas. I'm shocked," Tim mutters as he unearths his private briefcase and presses his thumb to the pad reader. 

"Hey," Dick chastises, only mildly offended, "not all alphas are entitled assholes. Have some faith." 

"I'm just saying, what could they possibly need to be protesting? Too much privilege?" 

"I knew letting you get an MBA would bite me in the ass," Dick mutters, as if he had any say. "Those progressive environments will skew your reality, kiddo." 

"Sure, Dick," Tim returns without bite, and flips back the lid of the briefcase to reveal his (very) personal laptop and favourite suit. He smiles despite himself; it's soothing to have a true piece of home to bring with him. "So are you going to tell me why you really want me to take this case when I'm on WE business?" 

Dick stretches and groans, and there's a muffled whump as he hits the pillows. "Wings. Stretching," he repeats shortly, and then yawns. 

Tim pauses with his fingers pressed to the red kevlar of his suit, and glances up to drink in the serene cityscape of Hong Kong's tourism district. "Okay, want to tell me how you really got this case?" he says, letting his tone slip into that appeasing, soft timbre that comes easy to omegas. 

Dick's responding growl is entirely alpha, and Tim flinches back against his immediate judgement, scowling. "Don't manipulate me, babybird," Dick warns, but it's not as aggressive as it could be. 

Tim purses his lips. "Rich considering you won't give me your source." 

Dick makes a frustrated noise down the line. "It came down the grapevine. I thought it was worth checking out." 

"You're lying," Tim points out lightly, and this time he doesn't flinch at the responding rumble. He straightens to slip into his pants, sandwiching the cell at his shoulder as he adds, "You don't even know what the capital city of Hong Kong is, Dick. You're not going to care about a local sleeper cell. Especially not one that's radicalising _ alphas _." 

Dick sighs, but doesn't dissent. "You're mean when you're jetlagged, babybird." 

"Who's your source?" 

"I don't know." 

"Dick-" 

"I honestly don't. It came from a trusted friend. He got the information secondhand." 

"Was that trusted friend between your legs when he gave you the information?" 

"Don't be bitchy," Dick warns. "If you don't want to take the case, that's fine. You can hole up in your hotel and binge out on room service for all I care. You've probably earnt the break twice over." 

Tim hums at that, because he's not wrong. "But?" he prompts. 

"But tell me you're not in your suit right now," Dick points out, and Tim glances down at the damning red material in his hand, before sighing. 

"I'll look into it," Tim allows. "But that doesn't mean I'm stepping into anything. I'm doing my own research. I want to be prepared if I'm moving in. I'm not letting Slade Wilson screw me over by proxy - he gets enough of a screw out of you." 

"Bitchy," Dick reaffirms, and Tim smirks before hanging up the phone and tossing it onto the covers. 

* * *

It turns out Tim needn't have worried about the information being compromised, because he lands smack-bang in the middle of the cell's headquarters while running reconnaissance anyway. 

It's a stupid mistake. Dropping in without properly scouting the warehouse first. But in his defence, Tim had run both an auditory sweep and a heat signature survey before slipping in through the skylight, and both had come up negative for life signs. 

He knows enough about the Progeny now to know that when he hits the concrete and spots the black-clad figures, he’s in for a definite fight. 

Tim, true to his word, had done his research. Starting with the easy media reports on a terrorist cell uprising under the moniker _ Zǐsūn _ that took a pretty loud stance against the grip omegas had on the Eastern governments. In much the same way the Gotham legislative and executive branches were rife with aggressive alpha politicians and cops, Hong Kong boasted a significant lean towards omega favouritism. Different culture, same prejudice, as far as Tim was concerned. It just happened to lean in his favour on this side of the globe. 

It made him understand a bit more clearly why his headstrong, business-savvy omega mother had come as such a slap in the face to Gotham’s alpha elite. Tim tries to imagine what she’d been like _ before _ she’d toned her image down and taken a Westernised name for the benefit of her colleagues. 

Regardless, there was a clear line drawn in favour of the omega over here - one that chewed into the security and sanctity of alpha rights with a considerable gluttony. His gender might be clouding his perspective on the issue, but even Tim can tell that the higher conviction rates, higher education dropouts, and increased risk of drug abuse for alphas in the East is no coincidence. 

The recent spate of legislative reform calling (albeit from a decidedly conservative political party) for alpha collaring had been met with protests from all degrees of the gender spectrum. But the response from the Progeny was radical and poignant; a succession of high-ranking politicians' children abducted, numerous bombing threats called into local authorities, and a string of covert hacks leveraged against Hong Kong’s premier international banks were the calling cards of the terrorist group. And it didn’t take access to the Cave’s considerable computing power to work out that their numbers were growing. 

At last count, Tim estimated their numbers to be in the high eighties for this particular Hong Kong cell, and north of one thousand operatives across Asia. Which was why he’d been so cautious about ensuring the steel mill front for their base of operations was deserted. 

When he hits the concrete and spots the black-clad figures, ‘deserted’ is not the word that comes to Tim’s mind. There’s no movement to herald his arrival, but that’s only because all of the messengers are already dead. 

The stink of alpha fear is lingering at best, stagnant after what appears to be a few hours of rigor mortis. And not nearly pungent enough to suggest all eighty-or-so alphas that litter the floor of the Progeny’s headquarters were terrified when their throats were slit. Which suggests immediately to Tim that whoever did so had training; this wasn’t a reactionary attack. This was planned, by professionals. 

Tim’s just beginning to clamp down on the coil of sharp unease that’s crawling up his throat when three figures at the opposite end of the warehouse pry themselves from the shadows. 

His retracted bo staff is in hand in the next instant, and Tim’s gaze is already dragging across their forms, cataloguing and categorising for when this inevitably escalates into a fight. They’re covered nearly entirely in black, except for the forefigure, who’s sporting a red hooded tunic. 

Clearly the leader, so Tim doesn’t wait more than the second necessary to snag a birdarang and fling it towards the red mask that covers the lower half of his face. He doesn’t wait to see if it connects - either it does and then he has one less problem, or the man deflects it and Tim needs all the headstart he can be afforded - before he spins on his heel and bolts for the staircase at the other end. 

He hears them take up pursuit a second later (deflected it, sounds like, from their response time) but his eyes are on the gangway that travels across the width of the warehouse one level up, a few feet to the left of the skylight Tim had entered through. He makes it to the fourth step before a blur of red mass slams into his back. 

Tim’s chin smacks into the step, a grunt ripping up his throat as he’s crushed into the unrelenting metal. There’s significant dead weight on him, but Tim twists as he winds gloved fingers into the grated step, hauling himself up as he turns under it. His other clenches harder on his collapsed staff (that he thankfully had the presence of mind not to let go of) as he swings up and back, aiming for the man’s temple. 

The figure ducks under his arm, boots braced on a lower step as his arms slide up to layer over Tim’s shoulders and pin him to the metal. Tim rasps and kicks back, but the man’s dropping his weight down onto Tim’s hips in the next moment, marrying the action with a firm palm into his sternum. 

The air leaves him in a rush, making Tim’s chest ache with the pressure before it lifts enough for him to suck in a sharp breath. Tim just unwinds his fingers from the grate and snaps a hand up to fist in the man’s hood. 

He’s expecting the retaliation, so Tim’s not surprised when he knocks his arm aside with a deft block. Tim’s more focused on his other hand, still gripping the staff, which he drives into the corner of where he expects the man’s jaw to be. There’s a snap of elastic, and the stiff mask shielding the lower half of his face goes flying, clattering over the side of the stairs as the figure flounders for a bracing grip on the railing. 

Tim’s too high on adrenaline to feel bad for clocking the guy, and the man’s recovered in the time it takes Tim to wiggle one leg free, so his vague guilt evaporates when he just shifts to wrap both fists around Tim’s biceps and _ pin _ him, hard. 

Tim’s grunt of pain is swamped by the growl that rips up through the man’s throat, and it’s only now that Tim can see the man’s dilated pupils and bared teeth that he recognises an alpha’s scent. He glares, mouth opening to return his best estimation of an alpha’s snarl, and _ that _ surprises the man. 

It’s enough hesitation that Tim can lurch forward and slam his forehead into the man’s nose. It earns him a bark of pain and surprise, but not enough of a backwards lurch to use to his advantage. The man’s leaning over him again in the next second, eyes blazing. 

“_Stop_,” he demands, ducking Tim’s aborted swing. “Not here to fight you.” 

“You’re doing a piss poor job, then,” Tim snaps, and bucks. It’s not enough to shift the man’s weight, but it does earn him a small frown as the figure contends with his unexpected strength. 

He comes back to focus after the barest second though, glaring down as he says sharply, “The Demon’s Head sends for you.” 

Tim does still at that, and the man might look relieved beneath his irritation. Tim forces himself to go limp, broadcasting his complacency, and the man hesitates a moment before leaning up off his arms. 

Now that he’s not actually engaged in a close-quarters wrestling match with a hulking assassin, Tim can take the time to marvel over how _ young _ the man is. Younger than Dick, for certain, though Tim can’t quite place his age from the hardcut jaw and tousle of black hair that peeks from beneath that hood. 

“Ra’s sent you?” Tim confirms, and gets a stiff, disciplined nod for it. He pushes up to his elbows, glancing past the man straddling him to the two figures waiting pliantly at the base of the staircase. No weapons drawn, no posture to suggest violence. His gaze returns to the man in red. “What’s he want with me?” 

“Your audience,” the man replies simply. 

Tim rolls his eyes. “He usually wants that. What for?" 

The man looks a tad unnerved at that, like he doesn't have an answer for Tim. When Tim crooks an impatient brow, he reasserts, "He requested your attendance." 

"Requested or demanded?" Tim rebuts, and takes pity when the man flounders, brow pinching. He shuffles his hips, pulling up into a sit when the man rocks his weight back onto his heels and off Tim. 

He casts his gaze around the warehouse, sweeping over the limp bodies as he begins to piece together exactly what role Dick's grapevine informant played in all this. 

"He didn't install a terrorist cell just to ask me out on a date, did he?" Tim says with growing suspicion. The man's impassive expression is answer enough, and Tim sighs, hauling himself to his feet. It's not the first time Ra's al Ghul has made an elaborate display to glean Tim's attention, and that horrible feeling in his gut tells him it won't be the last. "I don't get the option of a raincheck, do I?" 

The man just answers by gesturing down the staircase and plasters himself along the railing to give Tim room as he steps past. He falls into step behind him immediately after, matching Tim's short and sharp pace easily. 

"Are we walking?" Tim asks when they reach the warehouse floor, gaze sliding between the two waiting assassins, wary of a trap. It's not Ra's' style, but one can never be too cautious. 

"No," the leader answers, and presses a guiding hand into the small of his back when he doesn't immediately head for the doors. 

Tim pivots and lashes out with a sharp snarl, batting the man's hand away. It's not the first time an alpha's gotten handsy, but when Tim's in costume, when he's Robin, he doesn't have to simper and be polite. He doesn’t have to put up with people feeling like they’re entitled to his body. He makes sure people _ know _ that. 

It definitely takes the alpha aback, because his expression blooms from shock into horror, and then he's bowing his head, the line of his shoulders hunching in remorse. It takes Tim equally off-guard, because he's never seen an alpha concede that quickly before. Usually there's aggression, a challenge that he has to dance around and defuse. 

"Please accept my apology," the man says in a soft, low tone while Tim stares. Then his gaze slides beneath his lids to bypass Tim and lands on the door. He doesn't ask - seems to be waiting for permission, if Tim had to guess - but he gets the message anyway. 

"Hands to yourself," Tim reminds him, just a tad wrongfooted, and heads for the doorway. 

* * *

It takes a surprisingly short time to fly to Nepal, especially when one has the privilege of a private jet and a pilot with a loose understanding of acceptable flight paths, as the League of Assassins does. 

Tim tries not to look out the window as they skim the frosted ridges of Nanda Parbat. But there's not much else to keep his attention other than the man in red sat opposite him, and with his mask firmly repositioned, Tim doesn't even have the benefit of looking him in the eyes. 

He hugs Tim like a shadow, both oddly protective and irritatingly cloying as he's directed down the gangway onto the airstrip, and then into the tunnels. The man's footsteps are sure and steady when they reinforce Tim's own, and it doesn't take long before they breach into one of the expansive courtyards of the League of Assassins' headquarters. 

They're intercepted by Talia before they make the inner halls, and Tim's barely surprised when his two black-clad escorts melt into the shadows to be replaced by Talia's team. He's a little surprised when the man in red doesn't depart, keeping closely to Tim's right shoulder. 

Talia is as stoic as always, commanding an air of discipline in her wake as she leads them swiftly through the inner corridors to her fathers' chambers. Tim notes the steady frequency of armed guards, most of them alpha, going by their scents. Every one of them absolutely unmoving, indistinguishable from the sandstone columns. 

"Are all of your cannon fodder alphas?" Tim asks drily, gaze sweeping over the red-clad man as he says it. The man doesn't flinch under the attention, but he does lower his gaze when Talia's stare glances over him. 

"No," she answers without an ounce of shame. There's a bead of amusement in her tone when she adds, "but the same can't be said for all of our alphas." 

It's such a sharp, cruel statement, delivered so casually, that Tim startles. The red-clad alpha must scent it, because he tenses as Tim turns to survey Talia. 

“What would that make you?” he asks, a little pointedly, and regrets it when she turns that hard jade stare on him. He’s never felt comfortable enough around Talia to let his guard down an inch; unlike Ra’s’ considerate, if obsessive attentions, his daughter’s intentions have always strayed too far on the side of manipulative for Tim to ignore. 

“Not an alpha,” is all she answers with, amusement twisting her lips as she quickens her pace to intercept the doors ahead before Tim arrives. 

There’s a large domed space within, the marble floors awash with patterned carpets, and the static space littered with a desk and lounge set. Shelves line nearly every wall, housing not only books, but Tim only gets a brief sweep before Ra’s is beckoning him towards the fireplace, a glass of something rich and burgundy in his hand. 

“Timothy,” he croons breathily, and Tim shoves down the reflexive urge to turn on his heel and bail on the entire arrangement. He does settle for lingering in the doorway, ignoring that overly-inviting smile. 

“Ra’s,” he says shortly. “Care to explain?” 

“What is there to explain, detective?” the older man enquires, and raises his glass. “Care for a drink with me?” 

Tim’s tone is blunt. “No.” 

Ra’s hums to himself, reaching over to set the glass on a side table as he rises, smoothing down his robes with the practiced patience of a man with time at his beck and call. Tim stays rooted to the spot, tensing as he braces to be manhandled into the room. Ra’s is patient to a point, but Tim knows he can chew through that leniency quickly if he tries. Just because the man _ has _ centuries, doesn’t mean he likes to waste them. 

“Take a seat, detective,” he advises, and Tim can hear the command there, the surety. 

He set his shoulders, mouth opening to protest when he feels the soft press of fingertips against the base of his spine. Gentle, nudging him forwards almost pleadingly, and Tim turns to glance up at the red-clad alpha at his shoulder. The man doesn’t seem to be aware he’s even doing it, perhaps instinctually, but he yanks his hand away when Talia clips, “Chelb.” 

He looks abysmally contrite, fingers curling when they snap into the small of his back. Not before Ra’s’ gaze slides over the motion, however. Those lips twist into a displeased scowl. 

“Detective,” is all he says, reprimanding gaze fixed on the red-clad man, and Tim strides forward before anyone can acknowledge the alpha’s slip. 

“You installed a terrorist cell you knew I’d investigate,” Tim points out coldly as he crosses the room and turns to face the older man. The red-clad man doesn’t follow him. “And then murdered them to get my attention.” 

“And now I have it.” 

Tim doesn’t waver. “I’m not impressed.” 

Ra’s tilts his head, humming in a low note that reminds Tim’s of his own omega purrs. Something to soothe, to calm. It sounds foreign coming from the chest of the Demon’s Head, and Tim frowns, caught on the juxtaposition of an alpha mimicking omega sounds. He’s seen the reverse, of course - regularly _ does _ the reverse, on the daily in fact - but he’s never heard of an alpha posing as an omega. What’s the advantage? 

Regardless, it hooks into the instinctual parts of him, smoothing down the line of Tim's shoulders. Ra’s gestures to the lounge, and Tim takes it reluctantly. “If you are concerned with the frivolity of their installment, I can assure you it was for my own ends.” 

“Those ends being to lure me here?” 

Ra’s gives him a withering look, the sort Tim has received from tutors when he disappoints them with playing at being dumb. “Timothy, you are always welcome to speak freely here. But do not insult your own intelligence in my presence, if it please you.” 

Tim feels his lips twist in distaste, but swallows that down, glancing into the flames. “If you installed them to further the League’s agenda, then what was the point in killing them?” 

Ra’s smile is patient and reminds Tim intimately of a viper. “This will not be the last we hear of the Progeny. Their demise was for a cause, catalytic in nature. Their sister cells are already moving into position to promote retributive unrest." He tilts his head after a moment, fondly amused as he considers his handiwork. "They are, in fact, a rebirth of an older, more invasive form of terrorism - one that I had the pleasure of nurturing an age ago. Are you familiar with the 10,000 Mothers?” 

Tim frowns, and shakes his head, shifting deeper into the lounge. His spine doesn’t lose its terse ramrod stiffness, though, his ears pricked for the first sign of malevolence. 

“Ah, before your time, perhaps,” Ra’s allows, and regains his seat, scooping up his beverage absently. “A radical anarchist cell seeking to disrupt the conservative stronghold on their communities, fronted almost entirely by omegas. Popular in Persia during the 10th century. They protested the confines of gender by revolutionising their own bodies.” 

“What does that have to do with the Progeny?” 

“It’s a splinter cell,” Ra’s provides. “You don’t see the resemblance?” 

“It’s hard for me to reconcile the centuries-old oppression of omegas with a few decades of corrective legislation not designed for the first time to benefit alphas,” Tim interjects drily. “From where I sit, I can’t liken the martyrdom of Persian omegas with alpha guerilla warfare.” 

Ra’s laughs, sharp and bright, and Tim doesn’t join. “You misunderstand, Timothy,” he says patiently, pressing out a thin smile. “Omega oppression as you understand it is a relatively modern concept, and confined almost entirely to the Western hemisphere.” When Tim blinks, confused, he continues pointedly, “The 10,000 Mothers weren’t omegas protesting the mistreatment of omegas. The 10,000 Mothers were omegas protesting the mistreatment of _ alphas_.” 

Tim starts. “How so?” 

Ra’s preens, ever eager to utilise a teaching moment, and Tim resigns himself to the tutelage. “They were dissatisfied with the compulsory drafting laws imposed upon alphas. They considered them inhumane and prejudicial.” 

“Compulsory drafting?” 

“It’s a tried and tested philosophy,” Ra’s elaborates, gesturing absently to the alphas standing to attention in the doorway. “Utilising alphas as foot soldiers. One omega can birth a generation; their loss can end a matrilineal clan. But alphas are expendable, replaceable. Frequent, common. A wise man will pay the price of one hundred alphas to ensure the survival of a single omega.” 

Tim flinches at the suggestion, his earlier comment ringing in his head. “You seem to be a champion of that philosophy, despite your gender.” 

There’s quiet for a moment, cloying and disconcerting, before Ra’s repeats, “Despite?” and Tim has the sudden realisation that he’s never actually scented Ra’s al Ghul before. 

The shock laces up through him in an explosive rush, making Tim jolt. He scrambles to salvage the moment, caught off-guard. “I didn’t- I assumed-” 

“You assumed?” 

Tim waves a nervous, absent hand through the air between them. “It’s just- Omegas don’t usually- I mean, I’ve never _ seen _ an omega leading-” 

“You assumed that because I was the Demon’s Head, that I was an alpha?” 

Tim swallows. Ra’s tone is caged; not angry, but disappointed. “It would make sense.” 

“Why?” he presses, and Tim hates this more than anything. The demand to bare himself, to explain himself. 

“Wouldn’t it be easier to control a society like the League from a position of power?” 

He regrets it as soon as he’s said it, because Ra’s is lifting an upturned palm into the air and beckoning. The red-clad man is striding forward in the next moment, unclipping his mask as he goes, and looking distinctly reluctant beneath that facade of calm. Tim can read the tension in the pinch of his shoulder blades and the flat of his spine. 

The man comes to a stop at the end of the lounges, at an equal distance between both Tim and Ra’s, and folds to his knees without prompt. Ra’s hand comes up to wrap around the side of the alpha’s throat, and Tim flinches with him when Ra’s thumb digs pointedly into the sensitive skin exposed beneath his ear. 

It’s a display of dominance, a demand that the man cast aside whatever alpha instincts are clawing for him to shove Ra’s hands off him, to challenge, to aggravate. The unspoken command to submit to the will of an omega, to prostrate himself for his master. Tim’s chest only tightens when the man whines sharply, quietly, the sound a slip more than anything else, then bows forward to allow Ra's to brush back his hood. 

When the firelight reaches his neck, Tim's gaze flickers across the map of raised scars there. Too many scars for a man of his age to have acquired in the field, without significant repeat trauma. The highest of which traces the edge of his scent gland, frosted over the skin in a sharp pale line. 

"This one's undisciplined," Ra's advises quietly, his tone maliciously reverent. The alpha in his grip shudders and slips slightly lower into a stoop. "Too fresh to contain himself yet, but even he can be controlled, detective. Under the right hand." 

That grip twists slightly as he says it, locking around the scruff of skin hard enough to have the alpha's jaw go slack. He tenses for the barest moment, the only hint of resistance Tim sees from him, before it washes into compliance as Ra's guides him into a high kneel, pivoting him slightly to face Tim. 

His eyes, deep and blue and touching into the hues of green, peek from beneath his half-lids, dazed and complaisant, to fix on Tim. They widen slightly, some of that consciousness seeping back in as they flicker over Tim's features, before his brow pinches into regret and those eyes slide into dejection. 

Tim can't place the reaction, until Ra's says, "Did my pet play too roughly, detective?" with a contained gesture towards his chin. 

Tim lifts a hand absently, wincing when he comes into contact with what promises to be a prominent bruise. His memory flickers to the sensation of the man's bulk pressing into him, driving him into the stairs jaw-first with brute force. 

Tim's not in the practice of defending assassins from their own missteps, but he feels at least partially responsible for this one's reprimand. "I ran," he answers with, gaze snapping back up to Ra's. "There was a scuffle." 

Behind that mess of dark locks hiding Ra's hand, something must constrict, because the alpha gives an aborted yelp. The sound catches in his throat, choked, and his entire form tenses into a trepidatious rigidity. 

"It wasn't his fault," Tim interjects against his better judgement, and relief flickers across the man's slack features for the briefest moment. 

Ra's hand unfurls from the man's neck, stroking once down the dip of his back before alighting. The man slumps like a string's been cut, chest deflating. "The slight is yours, detective," Ra's concedes easily. "The repercussion is likewise yours to enforce." 

Tim nods, throat thick as Ra's reclaims his glass of wine, and glances down at the alpha. Drags his gaze over the man’s broad jawline and the slight upturn of his nose. The features are familiar, though Tim can’t place from where. Maybe he’s seen him while he was with the Titans; the man has a definite American accent, so perhaps he’s run across the man on opposite sides of the fight before. Wouldn’t be the first time a face had lingered in the front of Tim’s mind for days, only for him to realise it was a long-forgotten enemy. 

He’s pretty sure he’d remember this alpha though. His features aren’t quite _ right _ \- too broad, larger, not as soft - but they’re memorable. Tim’s pretty sure he’d recall a shade of hazel that distinct. 

Tim watches the older gentleman shift back onto the edge of his seat, expression sharp and discerning when he reaches across the distance between them. He’s not paying attention; his gaze is on the unmoving alpha, his veins thrumming with adrenaline as he watches a war of emotions slide over those features and sink beneath that practised mask. 

"You have much to learn, Timothy," Ra's purrs, the cloying warmth of his palm coming to rest on Tim's knee. 

Tim makes a deft block, snapping the limb off him reflexively. Then he freezes, ice plunging into his stomach. 

No one in the room moves as the weight of Tim's trespass settles over him like a noose. His gaze flickers up to Ra's, pinching with fear and remorse as Tim realises he's just _ refused _ Ra's al Ghul in his own home. 

Ra's expression is a lake of impassiveness, drawn into something flat and dark that makes Tim's stomach turn. He shifts, the fingers of his waylaid hand curling, and Tim desperately wishes an apology would rise to his lips. Something to assuage the grievous insult he's just delivered to Ra's’ hospitality and pride. 

There's a sharp snarl beneath him, and Tim's gaze snaps down in time to see the red-clad alpha coil and spring up at him. 

Tim's delayed by a mere half-second as that mass rises like a wave over him, promising violence. What he sees makes the resistance wash out of him. 

Because the alpha's lips are twisted in a sneer of protectiveness and ferocity. But his _ eyes _ \- his eyes are a war of concern and trepidation, and it's not for Ra's, it's not even for himself. It's directed at _ Tim_. 

A hand slams into the base of his throat, wrapping tight and shoving him back into the cushions of the lounge with a bitten off grunt. The other presses flat to his chest, and it's _ this _ hand that draws Tim's attention, because it's restraining in its force, guiding. Begging him to submit, to shift the blame onto this hulking, snarling alpha. 

Through his stunned bemusement, Tim's aware of movement in his peripheral, of someone striding hard and fast across the expanse of the room to intercept the alpha crouched over Tim. 

The man waits until the last possible second before that growl snaps off, his features slackening in resignation and relief. He's already peeling off Tim by the time Talia's nails bite into the flesh of his neck, drawing a sharp whine of pain. 

He goes easily, reeling back under that guiding grip and reclaiming his kneel at Talia's feet, contrite. 

Tim slides forward in the next second as Ra’s pushes to his feet, robes settling about his frame. “Don’t,” he bleats when Ra’s lifts a hand. The man pauses, but doesn’t look at Tim. “It wasn’t him. I did this, he was just doing what he thought was right.” 

When Ra’s’ hand cracks back across the alpha’s cheek, Tim makes a sharp mewling sound that rips up through his throat, but doesn’t move forward again. 

The alpha catches himself, jolting against Talia’s grip, before steadying himself and returning his gaze to Ra’s’ feet. “Forgive me, mawlā,” he murmurs in a breathless whisper, cheek blooming red. 

Tim tries again. “Ra’s-” 

“Either he specifically shirked his training,” Ra’s cuts him off coldly, that vicious purr back in his chest, and the alpha cowers beneath that tone, “and assaulted an esteemed guest in _ my _ house, betrayed _ my _ hospitality. Or he’s trying to protect someone other than his master, detective.” Ra’s’ gaze is cold when he levels it on Tim. “Both would otherwise be punishable by death. Which justification do you suppose it is?” 

He tries to keep his tone level, placating and even when he entreats, “It was a misunderstanding, Ra’s. That’s all. My fault, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have dishonoured your hospitality. I’m sorry for that. It wasn’t his doing.” 

“I won’t have an undisciplined alpha _ pup _ laying hands on an omega in my household, Timothy.” 

Tim flinches, but slides to his feet, a contrite whine sliding up his throat. Ra’s softens at that sound, despite the irritation rolling of his form, and Tim swallows hard. 

“Please, let me punish him,” Tim suggests, shoving down the swell of nausea that thought brings. The alpha doesn’t look up from the carpet, but Tim watches him stiffen with quickly masked curiosity. Tim tries to harden his tone, meeting Ra’s’ gaze. “He attacked me. Grant me the courtesy of seeking my own retribution, for slights against _ my _ person.” 

Ra’s’ stare doesn’t waver, and paranoia itches its way up Tim’s throat. The silence hangs heavy and burdensome in the air, thick on Tim’s tongue. “You’re a poor liar, Timothy,” Ra’s says mildly. 

Tim’s hand snaps out, fingers sliding and locking into the tuft of hair on the alpha’s crown. It earns him a bleat of what could be surprise or protest as he yanks the man out of Talia’s grip. He lurches forward, eyes on Tim’s boots, and catches himself on both hands. Moans reticently beneath his unwavering form. 

Tim doesn’t break Ra’s’ gaze. “He’s _ mine_,” he repeats, letting some of that sharp alpha-like growl curl in his chest. Not enough to be a true alpha’s rumble; it’s still soft around the edges, encompassing. Decidedly _ omega_, because Tim knows now which Ra’s values more. “To punish as I see fit. And then I’ll return him to you.” 

Ra’s doesn’t move for a long while, but Tim can see he’s impressed beneath that calm facade. There’s an amusement there too, a knowing that Tim’s not privy to, before he schools that out of his expression. He waits until some of the tension slides - almost imperceptibly - off the older man’s shoulders before he makes his move. 

“I have an engagement in six hours time,” Tim says curtly. He tightens his grip on the alpha’s hair, twisting very slightly until the man groans. “He can start by escorting me to my flight. Then we’ll see how else he can repay me.” Tim offers him a brusque but no less respectful half-bow, head dipping. “Thank you for your hospitality, Ra’s. Until next time.” 

He doesn’t meet any resistance when he turns on his heel and starts for the door. For that, Tim’s grateful. He’s not certain he’d be able to maintain his steadfast, defensive confidence any longer than it takes him to shirk Ra’s’ stare. 

The alpha falls into step immediately, attentive and compliant, so Tim lets his hair slip from his fingers. He’s made the point he was trying to make, and now that they’re in the corridor, he’s no longer obligated to perform for either of the al Ghuls. 

Tim stops once they’re well out of earshot, once he can see the plane idling on the tarmac at the end of the courtyard, and he’s certain his legs won’t be able to hold him upright much longer. He slumps back against the nearest wall, palms flat to the cool sandstone, and sucks in a deep breath. Ra’s’ gaze hangs heavy in his mind, the rigid fury of his spine, the sound of his knuckles snapping against the alpha’s jaw. 

Tim stills, peeling his eyelids back to look at the alpha. His cheek is still a haze of red, a stark reminder of Tim’s shortsighted mistake. A wash of guilt swims up through Tim’s chest, and he clenches his hand into a fist against the sandstone so he doesn’t reach out to soothe the man. He’s pretty sure he’d interpret it as a threat, and Tim’s presence had frayed at the poor man’s mind enough for one evening. 

He opens his mouth to apologise, drinks in the alpha’s attentive gaze, and closes it. “Thank you,” he says instead, trying to convey as much sincerity as he can muster. “For what you did back there. I- You didn’t have to do that.” 

The alpha dips his head, the picture of polite discipline. “As it pleases you, sir.” 

Tim scowls, straightening from his lean. “No, I mean it. That was my misstep. I should have been the one to pay for it. And if you hadn’t taken the blame, I would have. So thank you, for doing that for me. I appreciate it, really.” 

The alpha swallows, warring with something before he says, quietly, and with far more hesitance, “You’re welcome.” 

It sends a spiral of hope up the base of Tim’s spine, and he finds himself smiling after a moment. He steps forward, broadcasting his movements as he reaches up to take the furls of the man’s hood where it lays across his shoulders. The alpha tenses briefly, until he discerns Tim’s intentions, and then he ducks his head so Tim can reach high enough to settle the hood over his crown. 

He looks distinctly more comfortable within the anonymity of the hood, and Tim doesn’t imagine the slight curve to his lips when he straightens. 

Tim offers his palm, smiling, and the alpha stares down at it for a moment before reaching out to shake it. “Pleasure, Red-Hood,” he says, and flashes him a grin. “Until next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the dumpling boy! 
> 
> I wasn't very happy with this fic. Too many themes, incomplete characterisation, odd obtuse quirks. But it's plagued me for two weeks and I want to move onto other stuff, so have at it. And I did promise myself that I would do a League of Assassins Jason, so here's the freshly resurrected Zomboy!


	4. Chaste Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and short stories for the [JayTimWeek](https://jaytimweek.tumblr.com) Bingo Challenge 2019.  
Prompt: "Chaste Kiss" - Wedding

Dick is being a champ. Jason’s probably going to have to swallow his pride at some point and thank him for it directly, because he’s doing solidly, and Jason genuinely owes him one. He’s the only reason Jason isn’t a melted puddle of nerves right now. 

He offers Jason another blinding, thrilled smile that stokes the nervous, heavy coals in Jason’s gut, and Jason inhales shakily. Dick’s hands are just beneath the bobbing nock of Jason’s throat, adjusting the bowtie there. 

“Breathe, Jay,” Roy reminds him from where he’s sprawled in an armchair behind Jason. He can see him in the mirror’s reflection if he looks over Dick’s shoulder, so Jason tilts his chin up and offers Roy a scowl. He snickers. 

His adopted brother fiddles with his shirt, ensuring it's high enough to let the bowtie sit just right, and low enough to show off a peek of the intricate curves of the ornate collar underneath. It’d been chosen by Tim, who liked the sloping edges of the auburn-gold metal. Against the crisp white of Jason’s shirt, it gleams bright red against his throat, a promise of potential. Jason adores it. He’s been caught admiring the thin band in his reflection one too many times to pretend otherwise. 

Dick steps back, clapping him on the shoulders. His grin is something infectious, and Jason feels his lips quirk after a moment under that exuberant scrutiny. “You look great, Jay. Like a hundred bucks.” 

“This suit cost me three thousand,” Jason mumbles back, because his brain’s not computing right now, and that’s all that comes to mind. Dick snorts and laughs, eyes crinkling over his cheekbones. 

“I guarantee Tim’s cost more,” Roy interjects, plucking a toothpick laden with hors d’oeuvres off the end table beside him. Jason’s only a tad envious of how relaxed his best man is; he hasn’t been able to stomach anything since breakfast, and even then he only got a few bites of grapefruit in before he called it quits. 

“Nah, I reckon you’ll steal the cake, Jaybird,” Dick teases with broad confidence, doing a quick sweep of his outfit. Jason tries not to blush under the attention. 

It’s a trim, tailored, three-piece affair. Event-specific, with the high collar designed to cut low at the front of his neck, to bare his engagement band. The charcoal cashmere-blend of the suit highlights the burst of red at his throat, draws the attention down his chest. 

It looks _ really _ nice, Jason can admit. Despite his vocal protests, Bruce had insisted on funding at least part of the wedding. Jason had eventually caved and agreed to hosting the ceremony and reception at Wayne Manor. But he’d drawn the line at letting Bruce buy his wedding suit. 

Tim had put some of his inheritance towards it, citing that his parents had set up a fund specifically for his future wedding, and Tim was determined to see out their wishes. Jason hadn’t had the heart to argue with that, and now that he’s actually in this exorbitantly priced outfit, he can sort of appreciate Tim’s insistences. 

Jason looks _ good._ Even framed by the rugged appeal of a haphazardly suited Roy, with his tie slightly askew and cuffs open, and the majestic beauty of the impeccably dressed Dick, with his father’s cufflinks twinkling on his wrists and his hair immaculately styled, Jason can begrudgingly admit he comes out best dressed. Which is… a new feeling. A welcome one, but odd nonetheless. 

He supposes he's earned it today, of all days. It's _ his _ day, afterall. If there was going to be any day that Jason wiped the aesthetic floor with Dick Grayson, it would be on his wedding day. 

Jason wonders what Tim’s going to look like. They’d mutually agreed that they wouldn’t show each other their outfits until the actual day, until they were actually on the altar, so Jason hasn’t the slightest clue what style Tim has gone for. A suit? A dress? He wonders vaguely whether Gotham’s elite have traditional wedding garb, and then if Tim would be inclined to uphold them. 

For the most part, they’d been pretty good sticklers for tradition. They’d bought the cake, sat through hours and _ hours _ of seating revisions, designed the invitations, collected the RSVPs. Even their engagement had been fairly tame; Jason had taken Tim for a picnic up on Gotham’s empire building of a starlit early morning, and collared him under the watchful gaze of his childhood friend. 

They’d broken convention on one major point, though. Tim had insisted that Jason be the one to walk the aisle despite being the alpha in their relationship (which was not unheard of, but certainly rare), and that Bruce be the one to do it. Jason had been very, _ very _ adamant about that not happening. His relationship with Bruce was miles from the dangerous place it had been, and they had definitely built some bridges to get over their larger issues; Jason just wasn’t sure he was ready to have _ Bruce, _ his former mentor, his former _ father, _ give him away at his wedding. 

Tim, predictably, had gotten Dick involved. Dick had dragged Duke, Steph and Damian into his transparent schemes. Jason had dug his heels in against the lot of them, citing that they’d have to bury him again before he’d agree to Bruce walking him down the aisle. Then Cass had gotten involved, and well. 

There’s a rap at the door, and then a dark head of hair pokes in, mouth half-open to say something. Bruce pauses, gaze flickering over Jason’s reflection, and Jason stills under the attention, surprised by the sudden wash of _ pride _ that flits across Bruce’s features. Then he schools them. 

“How’s the timeline?” Bruce asks, stepping in and closing the door with a soft click behind him. 

“Hair and makeup’s taking for_ ever,_” Roy whines in a mock-valley girl accent, and Dick offers him a vicious grin around Jason. Roy tilts his head a little, dragging his gaze up Jason’s back. “But the view from back here is pretty nice.” 

“Fuck you, Roy,” Jason chokes out, but it’s garbled by his smile. 

Roy returns it. “I’m your best man. That makes me official esteem booster. And let me say, baby, your ass has never looked better.” 

Jason’s turning with a retort on his lips, but the thought is dashed when his phone chimes loudly in the small, enclosed sitting room. He fumbles the vibrating device out of his trousers pocket and glances at the ID. 

Jason swipes into the call and offers, “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk to each other before the vows.” 

Tim snorts down the line. “Not supposed to _ see _ each other,” Tim corrects. “Our ancestors didn’t foresee instant telecommunications devices, I suspect. So is it really breaking the rule if there was no rule to begin with?” 

“Legal mumbo-jumbo,” Jason answers, and then softens his tone. “How’re you feeling, baby?” 

“Like I’m wearing ten thousand layers of makeup and hairspray,” he answers through a chiming laugh. “I don’t think my hair’s going to recover for at least a week. But there’s this whole platter of chocolate-dipped strawberries, and the coffee’s fresh, so I don’t think I’m too hard done by.” 

Jason chuckles gently, shifting aimlessly as he stares down at his polished shoes. The shine is so immaculate that he can see the flash of white in his fringe glancing off the toes. “I’ll bet you look gorgeous.” 

Tim hums fondly. “Can’t wait to lay eyes on you.” 

Jason grins, straightening to take another peek at his reflection. He keeps half-expecting to wake up from all this luxury, but every time he pinches himself he’s still here, still on his wedding day, still marrying Tim. He doesn’t think he ever wants this dream to end. 

“So how’s this kiss going to go?” Tim purrs, and Jason can picture his coy smile. “Should I faint afterwards or…?” 

“Was gonna go with something more platonic, you know?” Jason retorts with a grin. “A chaste kiss. Wouldn’t want to give people the wrong idea.” 

Tim makes an ugly choked sound of mirth, and Jason’s nerves are singing enough that he tips forward into a laugh of his own. It’s ridiculous, the whole thing is ridiculous. They’re getting _ married, _ Jason’s getting _ married. _ The reminder makes the knot in his stomach coil tighter, but it just sends a rush of excitement and nervousness shooting up through his chest. 

“If you say ‘no homo, bro’ at the altar, I will leave you,” Tim warns through a snicker. His voice does a funny little waver at the end, and Jason realises with a rush of exhilaration that Tim’s just as nervous as he is. 

“Once I’ve got you locked down? Nah, baby,” Jason purrs with a crooked grin. “After today you’re all mine. Full fuckin’ homo.” 

“You have the dumbest pillow talk,” Roy interjects loudly, and Jason flushes, pointedly turning his back on the man. 

Tim laughs, and it’s a balm on the embers in Jason’s stomach. “I gotta go,” he says mournfully. “Steph wants to do my hair over again. See you soon?” 

Jason’s pretty sure it’s just a slip - Tim’s distracted mind slipping into his familiar farewell. “Yeah, baby,” Jason says softly anyway, and hears Tim’s breath catch. “I’ll see you soon.” 

“Love you,” Tim replies, and there’s so much _ depth _ to how he says it. 

“Love you too,” Jason fumbles back, and then the dial tone is bleating in his ear. 

Bruce steps up behind him, meeting his gaze through the mirror as he slides a relaxed hand into his pocket, the picture of meticulous ease. “How are you feeling?” he asks in that smooth timbre, the kind that inexplicably soothes down Jason’s nerves whenever he employs that alpha tone. 

Jason turns to greet those blue eyes. “Nervous as fuck.” 

Bruce snorts, somehow managing to make even that look refined, and smiles. “You look fantastic, son.” 

Jason tries to ignore how raw his throat feels at those words, and he’s thankfully spared the need to respond when Roy picks up a call on his cell, rolling to his feet. When he hangs up, he ushers Jason closer and says, “Procession’s starting. Dick, you gotta get your ass in one of those sweet front row seats. I’ll bring prince charming along shortly.” 

Dick gives him one last brotherly shoulder pat and a beaming grin before he ducks out of the room. Roy holds Jason’s gaze, lets him drag in a shaky breath, nerves flaring like stoked embers. Jason’s not sure if he can keep his stomach in check, let alone manage the parade through Wayne Manor. 

“Deep breath,” Roy advises with a reassuring smile. “Big moment’s coming up, and you’ve _ got this, _ Jay. You ready, champ?” 

Jason manages a wobbly nod, and Roy turns to open the door. Bruce slides up to his side, and offers his arm with a kind, unassuming smile. Jason takes it. 

The walk through to the main hall has got to be the most nerve-wracking, longest march of Jason’s short second life. Every footstep feels longer than the last, reverberating in the empty space like lead hitting marble, making Jason wince every time his shoes strike the floor. Bruce is a calm, unwavering anchor through it all, guiding Jason towards the doors that stand open, a single figure posted as sentry outside. 

Jason’s heart does a funny little skip when they reach Alfred. The butler does his best to stand tall, barely using his cane, with his features arranged into a proud pinch that Jason thinks might be his attempt at not crying. It makes Jason’s throat run dry and tears bead at the corners of his eyes. 

“Hey, Alf,” he croaks around a precarious smile, and the butler returns it with all the poise and refinement that’s echoed back through Bruce. 

Roy skips ahead, ducking a head around the open doorway and pausing for a moment. Jason swallows unbearably hard and waits for him to turn back with a soft, awed smirk on his features. “You’re a lucky fuckin’ man, Jay,” he says, low and sincere, and it damn near stops Jason’s heart. “See you on the inside, buddy.” 

And with that he disappears around the corner, leaving Jason between the two men who by all rights should be the ones to walk him down the aisle. The rich trill of a violin signifies the start of the procession waltz, and Jason’s eternally grateful when Bruce doesn’t acknowledge how Jason’s grip tightens brutally on his arm. He just strides forwards and takes Jason with him, turning him into the open doorway. 

It’s a long walk down the aisle to the altar. They go slow for Alfred, who regally mirrors Bruce on Jason’s left and leans heavily into his cane. Jason’s convinced it’s to stop him tripping himself up on the carpet too; his legs are nearly too drained to keep him upright, he suspects, his nerves buzzing like an electric shock in his veins. 

He doesn’t mind so much when he lifts his gaze up to the slightly raised dias, because he feels like it takes a small eternity for him to drink in just how Tim looks up there, smiling back down at him. 

Tim looks… Tim looks_ ethereal. _ ** **

His shirt is soft and white, settling across his shoulders like fresh snow. It cuts around the ridges of his collarbones, dipping low across his chest and down his spine. Exposing his collarbones in a way that makes Jason both appreciative and simultaneously possessive. And just the largest bit proud of his omega, on display, looking goddamn exquisite. 

It tucks in at Tim’s waist, accenting his almost feminine physique, a narrow line of buttons descending his sternum. It flares into a heavy swathes of skirts at his hips, but Jason can see the slim cut of trousers down to his oxfords. The only part of him bared is his throat and his face, and Jason goes weak at the knees when he finally manages to drag his gaze back up. 

He must make a pained whine at the sight of the thin eyeliner and the soft accent of tasteful blush over his cheekbones. Roy snickers softly from his post at the base, but it’s a fond sound, and it helps to center Jason as they reach the upraised dias. Jason can’t help but falter at the majesty that awaits him on that altar. 

From the slack expression on Tim's face, the feeling is mutual. 

It makes something odd and heated surge through Jason’s chest, and he unwinds his arm from the crook of Bruce’s elbow to ascend the steps. 

His footsteps sound unbelievably loud against the marble, one staccato step for every two thuds of Jason’s rabbiting pulse. He swallows when he clears them, Roy on his heels, and steps onto the carpet of blood red satin and cushions at the altar. 

Tim gives him a shaky exhale and an even shakier smile, and Jason’s next breath catches. He extends a hand as he comes to a stop in front of him, feeling lightheaded and charged with electricity. Tim takes it with a delicate, gloved hand, and Jason’s knees buckle as they slide down to the carpet. 

Jason lets his gaze roam the intricate lace overlay of Tim’s outfit as he settles his weight on his knees. His gaze (by design, no doubt) is inevitably drawn back to that unbearably bare throat, and Jason’s lifting a warm palm to slide around it before he can think better. 

Tim’s skin prickles underneath his touch, his breath catching audibly as Jason stares at him in sheer _ awe. _ Slides his palm across the strong tendons (his Tim, so strong, so _ fierce_) and wraps it around the back of his neck. Lets his calloused fingers run across the grooves of Tim’s bonding mark - of _ Jason’s _ bonding mark, the one that’s sculpted perfectly to Jason’s teeth, the one that’s imprinted on Tim’s skin like a promise, like an oath, like a vow. 

Tim gives him a soft, breathy whine when his nails catch on the mark, and Jason gives him what feels like the biggest grin of his _ life, _ before pulling back to reclaim his hands. 

“Hey, baby,” Jason whispers, voice low enough that maybe even Roy, standing behind him, doesn’t hear. 

“Hey,” Tim chokes, blue eyes impossibly wide, face impossibly pale. He looks so damn nervous, and it makes mirth bubble in Jason’s chest, manic and overjoyed. 

“You look amazing, babe,” Jason continues, drinking in the flush that blooms on Tim’s cheeks, even through the foundation. “Fuckin’ exquisite.” 

“You look so, so-” Tim tries, and makes a sharp little moan of regret when he can’t locate the right word. 

Jason gives a soft, breathless bubble of a laugh, and rolls Tim’s knuckles beneath his thumbs. “I got you, babe. I’m right here. All for you.” 

Tim whines softly. 

Barbara clears her throat gently, and Jason glances up as she rolls forward, a beaming smile on her face. It makes something settle in him, the familiarity soothing the nervousness that’s fraying at Jason’s seams. There’s some notes in her lap, and she raises her brows at Jason surreptitiously, a reassuring question in the depths of her blue eyes. 

Jason swallows and gives her a confirming nod. 

Then she turns to Tim, a question of permission in that warm stare, and Tim nods deeply, like it’s the most important decision he’s ever made. Jason feels that sentiment down to his bones. 

“Friends and family, old and new,” Barbara begins, projecting her voice out across the gathered crowd. It’s only now that he’s holding Tim that Jason remembers there’s a _ crowd, _ too. He turns to sweep them, grinning at Dick with Mar’i in his lap, return’s Lian’s little wave from the front row. Spots Damian and Duke and Cass and Artemis and- 

Jason swallows, throat tight and eyes inexplicably wet, and studiously turns back to Tim. 

“We’re gathered here today,” Barbara continues, “to witness the matrimonial covenant of Jason Peter Todd and Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne.” 

There’s a small shuffle from the crowd as everyone settles into their seats, and Jason takes the opportunity to draw in a low, deep breath. Tim’s hands are shaking in his loose grip, tiny minute shivers, and Jason’s astounded by the realisation that the man whose hands are still on the wires of a bomb, on the grip of a bo staff in the adrenaline high of a fight, are trembling in the presence of _ Jason. _

He pulls a low hum from his chest - not deep enough to be a true rumble, but low enough that Tim will feel the vibrations through the hold they share. Tim relaxes instantly, gaze deepening as his shoulders fall out of the high arch they were slowly driving into. Jason flashes a smile, and Tim returns it without hesitation. 

“This honourable estate is not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly,” Barbara provides with weight and surety, “but reverently and soberly. Into this estate these two mates come now to be joined. If any one can show just cause why they may not be lawfully united, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.” 

There’s an anxious, joking titter from the assembled crowd, as if the mere thought that anyone could protest Jason and Tim’s relationship is humorous. Oddly, it fortifies Jason’s resolve; as jaded and distrustful as Jason had been with his family until recently, this affirmation speaks leagues as to their approval of their relationship. Jason’s throat tightens with the assertion. 

As if he’s reading his mind, Tim’s grip tightens around Jason’s fingers, dragging his attention back to the majesty of the man in front of him. 

Barbara turns to Tim, whose gaze reluctantly lifts from Jason to meet her as she asks, “If you take this man, this alpha, as your wedded mate, speak your vows.” 

Tim sucks in a calming breath and holds Jason’s gaze with those depthless blue eyes. “Jason Peter Todd,” he says with the quirk of a smile, and a chuckle bubbles in Jason’s throat at the sound of _ his _ name on Tim’s lips, _ here, _ now, “I choose you to be my lawfully wedded mate. Before these witnesses, I vow to love you and care for you, for as long as we both may live. I take _ you, _ with all your faults and your strengths, as I offer myself to you with my faults and my strengths. I vow to help you in your need, and turn to you in my need. I take you as the person with whom I will spend my life.” 

Barbara steps back slightly to give them room as the maid of honour steps forward to take her place. Steph’s already sniffling by the time she leans down to offer Tim the ornate wooden box in her arms, a steady stream of tears gathering in the dimples of her cheeks. Jason offers her a beaming, reassuring smile as Tim takes the box from her hands and sets it beside his thigh. 

“Hey, Steph,” he whispers, waggling his brows, and she chokes a tear-strained laugh, straightening. She slides back into the periphery, hands fisting in her purple (_purple,_ Jason thinks wryly) skirts. 

Tim straightens, and Jason glances down to find the lid of the box tipped open. Angled as it is, he can’t see its contents, but he knows in the core of him what it is. His marital collar, the one Tim has chosen for him. The one he gets to wear for Tim, for the rest of his life. Jason can't get it on himself soon enough. 

Tim shuffles forwards on his knees, palms sliding up to cup Jason’s jaw. He offers him a tight, excited smile, and then runs them down the line of Jason’s throat, over his engagement band, over his shirt collar, until his knuckles are crooked around the bow tie. 

His thighs are boxing Jason in, warm to his own clothed skin, and Jason runs a soothing hand up Tim’s leg as he pulls apart the bowtie, eyes never wavering from Tim’s face. 

It’s a slow and arduous tradition, undressing the groom’s throat. Baring the alpha to the inspection of the omega, to Tim’s approval. Jason arches his throat when Tim digs at the button there, peeling back his shirt until he can get his hands on the red engagement band. There’s a look of intense focus on Tim’s furrowed brow, and Jason resists the urge to lean forward and soothe it, sure that Tim’s not even aware he’s making it. 

His fingers are hot on Jason’s exposed skin, calloused and just on the edge of rough as they encircle his neck, thumbs hitched under his Adam’s apple. Jason holds his gaze and stays still until the telltale _ snick _ tells him Tim’s slim fingers have found the clasp. 

He can’t help glancing down when Tim pulls his hands away, the weight of the band in his palms. It looks so delicate, so ornate and small. Jason’s stomach tightens into a harsh knot when Tim sets it aside and reaches into the open box. 

The collar is a solid band of gunmetal silver. It looks fortitudinous, but the imperfections in the metal alloy soften its harsh exterior with flecks of silver and white and red-gold. There’s a promise of malleability and cooperability beneath that hard, stubborn shell. 

It’s far less of a statement piece than his bright red engagement collar, but Jason adores it all the more for its subtly, for its functionality. It’s the sort of piece that blends into the rhythm of the everyday mundane, flush against the life that Jason and Tim have built together. It’s the sort of collar that promises a lifetime of wear, promise and potential etched into its surface. 

“I give you this collar as a symbol of our vows, and with all that I am, and all that I have, I honor you. With this collar, I thee wed,” Tim declares, laying the collar against the width of his throat. Jason slides forward into his touch, until Tim can close it flush around the back of his neck and clasp it. 

It fits like a goddamn dream. Jason’s willing to bet that it would slot perfectly flush against the neckline of his helmet, too. Its weight is an absent reminder in the back of his mind, a reminder of Tim for him to carry through his days. 

Barbara moves forwards long enough to catch Jason’s attention and say, “If you take this man, this omega, as your wedded mate, speak your vows.” 

Jason clears his throat softly, setting his broad shoulders as he says, “Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, I choose you to be my lawfully wedded mate. Before these witnesses, I vow to love you and care for you, for as long as we both may live. I take you, with all your faults and your strengths, as I offer myself to you with my faults and my strengths. I vow to help you in your need, and turn to you in my need. I take you as the person with whom I will spend my life.” 

Roy goes down to one knee to offer Jason the collar on outstretched hands. Jason’s hands are shaking when he takes it, and Roy lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder, squeezing as he leans forward to Jason’s ear. “You got this, Jay,” he whispers, lips quirking in a blinding grin, and Jason nervously returns it. 

Roy pulls back after another reassuring squeeze, sliding effortlessly back up to his full height and clasping his hands in front of him. 

Jason swallows and straightens, turning back to Tim, who has folded his hands in his lap. Jason can see the tight, stiff tension in them wash away when he lays eyes on the collar. It’s accompanied by a surge of self-satisfactory pride on Jason’s part. 

He has spent literal _ months _ fretting over this collar. 3AM balcony-cigarette panic attacks whispered down a cell to Roy, who had earnt his best man accolade on sheer dedication alone. Undercover sting movie nights with Steph, Tim and Dick, a host of unrelated questions on Tim's preferences, and a full report on Jason's desk by the next morning. All so Jason could be absolutely certain that this collar was the right choice. 

It's small, and polished, and black as midnight. Jason had specifically requested the deepest shade of ebony alloy he could get his hands on. 

Tim sucks in a harsh, breathless gasp when Jason goes to lift it, startling him for a moment before he follows Tim’s gaze down to the collar, and _ grins._ He watches Tim’s expression as he holds the metal, flexing his grip to watch the translucent glean of red flash under the lighting. The sheen of blood red rolls over the polished pitch, chewing away the darkness in the blink of an eye, before it fades back to its innocuous black. 

The symbolism is not the slightest bit lost on Jason. The deep, impenetrable charcoal is reminiscent of Tim’s darkest tailored work suit, the one he wears to investors meetings and mergers, when he wants to radiate that fierce, collected aura that gave him his bragging rights as WE’s CEO. The bright scarlet is nearly the exact shade of his Red Robin outfit, the suit he wears whenever he puts the world before himself, whenever he stands with conviction and desperation and determination, and all the things Jason loves about Tim. The red he hides from the world, but nonetheless shares in little flashes of revelation, subdued beneath the black. 

Steph makes a choked, wet little gasp - the soundtrack to Tim’s expression - when Jason smiles and leans forward to lift it to Tim’s neck. Tim slides forward, dazed, letting his weight fall flush against the weightless metal as Jason closes it over the mark on the back of his neck. The _ visible _ mark, anyway. He and Tim both know that bond runs far deeper than skin. 

Tim drags in a ragged breath when the clasp closes, and it twists Jason’s stomach, because it sounds distinctly like the precursor to tears that Jason’s all-too-familiar with after their years together. There’s a moment of brief panic, before he realises _ he’s _ done that, that Tim’s so overwhelmed by Jason’s collar, by his thoughtfulness, by the symbol of his unshakeable love, that he’s _ choked up. _

So Jason pulls a rumble from the depths of his chest, and soothes his thumb over the rise of Tim’s spine, stroking the unblemished skin. “I give you this collar as a symbol of our vows, and with all that I am, and all that I have, I honor you. With this collar, I thee wed.” 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Barbara says with a broad, all-encompassing smile, “I present to you these wedded mates.” 

And without waiting a second longer, Jason lurches forward, palms sliding down the bare expanse of Tim’s back as he drags him into his lap. Tim’s arms are already hooked around his neck, his spine arching to press him against Jason’s bulk as their lips meet. 

It’s deep and overwhelming and _ amazing. _ Jason’s senses are overborne by the whole of Tim, all of him pressed against Jason, held by Jason, and he groans deep in his chest. Tim returns it with a low whine that’s entirely, emphatically euphoric, and bears down into him, skirts hitching around Jason’s thighs. 

Jason’s vaguely aware of the crowd of people beneath altar cheering, most of them on their feet, and he definitely doesn’t imagine Roy’s shrill wolf-whistle or Dick’s bellowed, “Get a room!” 

It feels like a small eternity before they break apart, gasping in air as soon as their lips part. 

Tim’s flushed, ecstatic and a little breathless. It does wonderful things to Jason’s self-control. “Thought we were going with a chaste kiss?” 

Jason growls, because he’ll never be able to keep his hands off his mate, off _ Tim,_ _ his _ Tim - and leans down to kiss him again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a huge sap, y'all. Hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> In case it wasn't clear, Roy was Jason's best man and Steph was Tim's maid of honour. 
> 
> Here's my extra notes on A/B/O weddings:  

> 
> * Wedding ceremonies are traditionally skewed towards the benefit of the _omega_. They’re designed as to be a question of permission from the alpha to the omega, asking if the omega accepts the alpha into their life - rather than a “giving away” of the omega to the alpha. If an omega at a wedding ceremony refuses at any point, that signifies the end of the union, and there is no recourse for the alpha to pursue. In omega-omega marriages or alpha-alpha marriages, vows will be changed to offer both parties the opportunity to accept or refuse the union. 
>   

> * Traditionally, the omega will be brought to the alpha by both or either of their parents, as a show of solidarity, and symbolising the envelopment of the alpha into the omega’s family - and the beginning of a family of their own. 
>   

> * Wedding collars are made of lightweight metal alloys for functionality, and so they can be worn in everyday life without restricting the wearer. 
>   

> * In A/B/O weddings, the bond is consummated _before_ the ceremony. While not a requirement, it is traditional for the bond mark (made during sexual intercourse) to be the initiate ritual, rather than the closing ritual. The wedding is the final symbolic step in fortifying the couple’s union. 
>   

> * The matrimonial rites are begun with one party (usually the alpha) offering the other an engagement collar. This is usually symbolic of protection, chastity and custody, and is phrased as a request that may be at any point refused. In the weeks to months that follow the alpha’s proposal, the omega will confirm the engagement by presenting the alpha with a reciprocatory engagement collar. 
>   

> * Omega wedding garb is specifically designed to draw attention to the neck and the bondmark, and often covers all other visible skin. The omega will take off the engagement band beforehand, and attend the ceremony bare. The matrimonial collar will be fitted while the alpha gives their vows. 
>   

> * Alpha wedding garb was historically armour, to symbolise the unspoken vow of protection the alpha would take and uphold. In more modern ceremonies, the alpha will often wear a suit or robe, as culture permits. The alpha will wear the engagement collar until the undressing rite, where the omega will undress and remove the collar as symbolic of the alpha “letting down their guard” for their mate. The omega will then present the alpha with their matrimonial collar and place it on them while the omega gives their vows. The alpha always receives their collar first. 


End file.
